


Strip away your hard veneer (see what I can find)

by queerly_it_is



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curses, Exhibitionism, Frottage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerly_it_is/pseuds/queerly_it_is
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Investigating what they think is an incubus lurking around a strip club, Sam and Dean end up caught in the thrall of something else entirely; something that throws them together for the first time since Sam came back from Stanford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strip away your hard veneer (see what I can find)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the salt_burn_porn challenge on LiveJournal, for the prompt "this is what he pays me for, I'll show you how it's done"

He can feel it the moment they walk in.

The club’s not exactly full, but not entirely empty. The music makes its home as a dull throb along his spine, aching right down to his hips and humming up through his shoes.

The air sits heavy; dense and musky like odourless perfume, makes his head swim and sweat prickle at the small of his back.

Dean sees Sam stumble a little, mid-stride like walking into an oncoming wave. He makes the mistake of grabbing his arm; helpless reflex that sparks a chain reaction blazing down to his dick even as he lets go.

Not an incubus then. The spindly protective charm around his neck may as well be some cheap tourist trap knockoff for all the good it’s doing him. Or Sam, judging by the way he’s tugging at the knot of his tie; long, long fingers tangling with the buttons of his jacket.

He’s flushed, even in the dim, reddish light that glances off of dark furniture, only real brightness the reflected flash of sequined stripper garb and the occasional piercing.

Much as he’d love to admire the scenery; dancers writhing around the burnished lengths of metal poles spaced along the abstractly curving ‘stage’; gyrating in the laps of customers seated around the room, he can’t quite focus.

At least, not on anything that isn’t the fall of hair across Sam’s face. The way the suit outlines him like a suggestion, the space between his miles of legs a tempting void like night that draws him in. The way his tongue slicks his lips to a wet shine under the roving lights that smear ghostly white across the stage.

Dean shakes his head like it’ll clear it, compulsion and want tingling in his fingers, the building pressure in his dick is a dam flooding, spilling over.

“Sam, I think we should--” he starts, voice already mangled and shot through with gravel, trampled beneath the pound of the bassline. Sam probably can’t hear him anyway; his brother’s lost somewhere in the display of flesh going on a few feet away, the up-down of his broad chest obvious and rhythmic.

Fuck, he needs--wants--they need to get out of here.

“Sam,” he forces out, the vibration in his throat skittering along his skin, eyes twitching like his lids want to droop. “C’mon man we gotta go, right now.” He thwaps Sam in the shoulder with the back of his hand, and even that’s fire down his forearm like pressing on a sunburn.

Sam takes a step. In the wrong direction; toward the chick eyeing him from her place of honour above the chairs scattered close to the stage.

Dean reacts again on impulse, steps around and in front of him, bluish glow above the bar like a halo or a spotlight that makes him squint to see Sam’s face, everything shadow and contrast.

Sam blinks and looks down - way down, and how close are they standing? - at him, eyes glinting and mostly pupil, a deepening black that Dean could drown in.

“We have to go. This place, there’s something--we were wrong,” he yells over the music, forces the syllables into order and out past his lips; curls his toes against the heat in his belly and the warmth that’s building under his shirt collar.

Sam’s watching his mouth, and fuck that shouldn’t--he’s almost biting his tongue to stop from wetting his lips, fingers aching from the clench into fists so he doesn’t touch.

“Dean,” Sam says, not a question or a statement, or anything remotely safe. It fans across Dean’s cheek in a wave of warmer air, settles as ichor in his veins and rattles him way more than it should. There’s need in it.

“Having fun?” Suddenly floats into the loaded space between them, poured sweetly into Dean’s ears like the music isn’t even there.

It’s the bartender. Or Dean thinks she’s the bartender. He could swear he’d clocked her when they walked in, standing near one of the honeycombed shelves of booze bottles behind the gleaming line of the counter.

She’s gorgeous. Tall, pretty much at Dean’s eye level, hair fanned over her shoulders and skin dark, smooth. She’s looking between them with a faint smile, and Dean’s gaze skips like a record from the intent in her eyes to the curl of her fingers over Sam’s shoulder.

“We were just leaving,” Dean says, as much politeness as he can manage against the not quite natural dazedness on Sam’s face and the buzz against his skin like static when she focuses on him.

“Oh but your friend here hasn’t had a dance yet.” Her voice like honeyed wine, one hand skating midway down Sam’s chest, the red of her nails drawing smooth along the fabric. Dean sees Sam’s eyes flutter at the corners, the way his long throat rolls on a swallow.

She’s leading Sam over to a chair before Dean can make his legs move, like lead or concrete anchoring him to the floor, stuck watching helpless.

Sam crumples into the cushion of the single seater, puppet with its strings cut. She straddles his lap like ownership, and Dean’s teeth scrape together, loud inside his skull.

This is all wrong, he knows. Instinct ringing distant alarms like muffled bells. His thoughts are molten, shifting things he can’t pin down.

Sam’s hands framing her narrow hips is what finally kicks him forward, and her eyes are pools of knowing obsidian as her bare stomach flexes beneath the strong lines of Sam’s fingers.

Fuck, Dean shouldn’t be watching this. None of this should be happening. They’ve--there was something they had to--but his head is full of scalding fog, and his cock is swelling against the zipper of his slacks, and he should be one to--he should be the one.

His jacket hits the floor; inaudible rustle of fabric over his shoulders that heightens the drumming in his blood before he lets it go.

The nameless woman--damn they don’t even know who she is, if she’s--rises smooth and flowing to a rough groan from Sam as his hands fall away and he‘s left breathing hard, gripping the armrests.

“Come on Dean.” Like a melody in his head, a line pulling taught near his navel, drags him forward. “You shouldn’t keep your brother waiting.”

Sam makes this harsh, choppy sound that Dean shouldn’t be able to hear, as if it’s playing through the same internal speakers as her voice. Something isn’t--how does she--

He’s standing by the chair, looking down at Sam, and fuck he’s a wreck. Splayed thighs and bangs strewn across his forehead, shallow breathing that outlines his chest through the pale blue cotton on every inhale. His eyes are, christ Dean doesn’t even know; washed out and so, so hungry.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice scraped raw and damning, plea and meaning stuffed into the name like Dean hasn’t heard since he got Sam back. Dean’s fingers graze the back of his brother’s hand like intuition; that weird extra sense devoted to everything Sam suddenly tunnelled down to the shift of hips and the obvious hard line of his dick.

Dean’s mouth floods wet and his tongue rolls against his palate, a debauched slideshow playing behind his eyes. The phantom weight of a cock sliding smooth and velvet past his lips, heavy and leaking, jumping with his brother’s heartbeat. Sam clutching tight around him, hot and open and perfect. Dean spread slutty and wide for Sam, messy and still begging.

Blood surges, boiling through his body, and pressing a hand to his crotch just draws Sam’s eyes right to him, another noise like pain shredding from his bitten lips.

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean groans as he steps right between the V of his legs, calf-to-calf on either side, the contact a burr of electric current up his body, deeper than his bones.

Sam’s never been this shameless, this wanton.

_Show him. He’s yours. Show him._

Drumbeat through the air on a red haze that clouds everything, and all he can see is Sam’s head tipping back as Dean’s knees slot between Sam’s thighs and the carmine leather. Slanted eyes going from wide to seductively lidded. The flutter beneath the thin skin of his neck that Dean can’t not set his mouth to.

The salty tang of Sam’s skin makes Dean’s whole body twitch forward, arching over Sam and sucking a mark as deeply as he can against the straining cords of muscle and sinew.

Ache sets in deep at the base of his spine, nothing compared to the rough collision of their hips as Dean tugs his shirt open and adds teeth to the sucking pressure along the irresistible length of exposed skin leading to Sam’s collarbones.

His brother is all warmth and malleable fervour when Dean slides his hands up from beneath the curve of his ribs, over the buds of nipples that pebble despite the heat rising feverish between them; strokes his neck and cups his jaw, tugs him into a bruising excuse for a kiss.

Dean licks into Sam’s mouth, chases the taste of him and sucks on his tongue like a promise, explores the bumps of his teeth and ridges of his mouth.

Sam’s big hands span wide on Dean’s back, pull him impossibly closer and push blunt nails against the skin beneath his shirt. Dean wants torn skin and raised lines that prove his brother’s hands were there. Wants to shove back into his baby’s seats and feel the sting of Sam’s touch like the harsh bite of a salt round.

Dean wants everything.

Their lips slide and cling, gasping into meaningless distance, shared breath like shared blood that flows from one to the other. Sam’s teeth leave dents in Dean’s bottom lip. Dean looses nonsense sounds into the slick pull of Sam’s mouth, presses them together sloppy and hard.

Sam’s hands reach his ass, fingers gripping tight and hauling them against each other over and over like water on rock.

The pressure’s building like a train bearing down on them, rumble in his chest and the whole room feeling like it’s shaking. The broken, sweet noises Sam gives him with every scrape of their hips, pleasure-pain drag of Dean’s cock in his clothes that burns like a brand and sings against his nerves.

He’s talking between the rolling motions of his body, mutters possessive filth into the sweat-damp curve of Sam’s neck, random thoughts of fucking and being fucked that he voices low and intent to feel Sam squirm underneath his weight.

He could do it here, slide to the floor between those long legs and swallow Sam’s dick like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Knows he’d make it good, knows Sam would come screaming down his throat for all the nameless faces in this joint to see. Could fuck his brother’s mouth or ass, right here, and nobody’d say a damn word against it. He could give it up like he’s the one being paid to be here; ride Sam hard and relentless to the throb of the music, every trick he‘s got to make Sam .

But he’s gonna take this first.

Sam comes with a battered sound that lodges behind his chest, his pretty face a ruin of clenched eyes and hair matted to his forehead, hickeys scattered across his neck and sitting over the rise of his Adam’s apple. Dean feels him jerk and shudder through it, draws it out with one hand working against the iron-hard length of him; feels every pulse like gunfire, one shot after another, wetness beneath his fingers.

Still wobbly with aftershock; Sam’s hands make jerky motions over Dean’s back, down to his ass and up again, repeated motion like counterpoint to Dean grinding down on him.

It starts as a lightning storm from below his toes. Raising hairs on his arms and prickling as goose bumps spill across his skin. He ruts once, twice, pressure behind his balls and tightening his hips in slow circles against Sam’s oversensitive groin.

He grits his teeth and groans long and low as he jerks hard, shoots wet and blinding against his zipper, pressure drawing it out and bursting starlight behind his lids even as his eyes roll up into his head. Convulsing hard enough his stomach muscles ache, he holds onto Sam and comes back to himself like a drowning man; gasping and too aware of his chest expanding.

Everything is distant and silhouetted, save for the sweaty tangle of their bodies and the mess cooling in his briefs, twitch of his dick as he slides along Sam’s lap, palms skidding on the leather arms of the chair.

With the need pushed back a little, Dean can feel the outside pressure of whatever mojo this place is under; cloying and demanding.

They should move, will have to soon as Sam finds his brain cells again and Dean gets the feeling back in his legs.

He breathes, slow, controlled.

They’ll move.

In a minute.


End file.
